


silence may kill us (and i would die a slow death)

by griners



Series: The wounds we heal and the ones we do not [2]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: F/M, i can't POSSIBLY get over them now, im in season 6 and they spend half their time oggling each other life is great, what have they done to me i-
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29656062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griners/pseuds/griners
Summary: He strokes her hair until all he can hear is her heavy breathing, wonders how much a single breath can change your entire life, wonders how she survived losing someone she loved whilst he isn’t sure he could survive losing her. He forces himself to remain awake for a few more seconds as her breathing lulls him to sleep and, finally, wraps an arm around her and succumbs to the reality – she is here, she is here, she is here. She is here.
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen & Donald Ressler, Elizabeth Keen/Donald Ressler
Series: The wounds we heal and the ones we do not [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148087
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	silence may kill us (and i would die a slow death)

**Author's Note:**

> ahahahaAHAHAH keenler will be the death of me I am 198% sure. Now excuse me while I resume season 6 and their extensive oggling and sex eyes which they are nOT by any means good at hiding.

Liz knocks on the door much too lightly for anyone remotely sure of what they’re going to do. To match her knock, she is unsure herself – doesn’t know what to say, what to ask – but knows she has to say something, ask something. One of her feet is half turned in position to retreat but the knock is answered, as she knew it would, and Ressler allows her to enter her own office (their much too shared office) with a curt “Come in.”

She does. She closes the door on her way in and he looks up mildly confused, the phone line dangling from his hand clearly stating there are much more official business to be attended to. But this, whatever this is, whatever she has to say, she’s certain it can’t wait.

“Did Homeland call back already?” he asks in a rush, and for the life of her, Liz doesn’t even know what they were trying to reach Homeland for. She did, however, leave the courthouse on the line to confirm the 4 p.m. appointment for her much too rushed, much too small, much too intimate wedding, so she figures her lack of knowledge of this case will slide by, just this once.

“No. No, I uhm-“ Liz fiddles with the frayed hem of her sleeve for an extra second before catching his stare, gathering her words. “I wanted to tell you that it would mean a lot to me if you guys could make it. Today, I mean. I know the case is important and I know this is last minute, to say the least-“ he smiles faintly- “But I would love to have you there. Truly.”

Ressler nods, smiles again, puts down the phone. He looks at her cryptically as he runs a hand through his hair, the corners of his mouth still tilted up. He asks, “I thought you just asked us that downstairs?” but it’s a pointless question, really, because they both known this isn’t a plural request and they both know the one person she wants there is the one person who least wants to be there.

Liz doesn’t really know what to respond. _Yes, I asked the team to be there, but I don’t want you there as the team –_ or – _I want you there because I can’t seem to go through the important things in life without you_ – or – _How do I explain to myself that I stayed up all night dreaming of you in that alter?_

She’s quiet for a beat. She wants to be selfish and ask him to be present, and she wants to go easy on them both and make sure the case doesn’t allow him to do so. She wants everything at once and isn’t sure she’s even allowed to have either, doesn’t know why on earth she’s more worried about his mental well-being than the fact she hasn’t heard from Tom since this morning. He makes it easy on her, though, because if anyone here is the bigger person, it’s him. He stands slowly with a reassuring look on his face and she’s struck with the fact that she never stood a chance against this. She strokes her stomach in a desperate attempt to ground her priorities.

“He makes you happy, Liz,” he says, and his jaw is minutely too locked for the words he’s uttering out, but she pretends not to notice. “That’s what’s most important. I’ll be there, because you’re happy.” And then, softer, “I’ll always be there, no matter what.”

She chalks the tear threating to break free to her 8-month pregnancy hormones, and it’s his turn to pretend to miss it. She nods forcefully, breathes shakily and thanks him, half babbling and half stumbling around the office, something about _Idon’tknowwhatI’ddowithoutyou_ and _I’msorryI’msosorry_ and _Iwantto-_ but she’s enveloped by a wall of clean smelling fabric and a warm embrace not two seconds later, and she muses that her miserable attempt at explaining what he means to her, what this means to her, will have to wait another day.

She will later regret not telling him now, when her wedding is _guns_ and _blood_ and _death_ and _god, please, no_. She will regret it later, and yet, she hugs him back and succumbs to the weight of everything left unsaid.

-

She’s 2 months into physical therapy the first night he comes to her house. It’s 1 am and the knock on the door scares her far more wildly than it should, but when she takes a careful step towards the hallway she hears a familiar “It’s me,” and thinks maybe, maybe, this night she might not cry herself to sleep.

“Hey.” Is all Ressler says when she opens the door. His face is one of suffering and Liz knows it mirrors hers, knows he’s probably only suffering _because_ of her. She wishes she could take his pain away, but hasn’t even accepted hers to begin with.

“Hey,” she replies softly, opening the door wider so he can step in. He doesn’t, though, at first. His frown as he looks her up and down is desperate, and she knows he’s trying to take it all in, how she was gone and then she wasn’t and how he hasn’t seen her since she woke up because she couldn’t possibly see anyone, not after that. Not as long as she still dreams about her head being smashed into a table and the father of her child dying in the backseat of a car next to her limp body. Not as long as she can’t look them in the eye without being reminded of everything she lost, so quickly and so permanently, but he’s here despite all of that because- because-

“I’ll go, if you want.” He assures her, pained, a shell of himself. “But please don’t make me go. I thought, I mean, I really thought-“ he chokes on the word, but she doesn’t need him to finish. _I thought you were dead, so please let me believe you aren’t. Let me._

“You can stay.” she says, less faintly this time, and nudges her head towards the inside of her apartment, signaling him in. He immediately goes to help her with the crutches, but she snorts at his attempt, _tsking_ him into not doing anything stupid like assuming she hasn’t been taking care of herself for the past two months. He acknowledges this and smiles sheepishly, half apologetic, and stands at the entrance to the living room as Liz shuffles over to the sofa. When she looks back quizzically, he leans against the wall silently, gazing at her.

“I still can’t believe you’re really here,” he admits, and it’s an admission because it holds so much more than it should. She suddenly feels so bare, so naked even in her Quantico sweatshirt and thickest pair of sweatpants, and she shivers under his eyes. He notices this and approaches her slowly, sits on the edge of the sofa, the TV crackling in the background and the rain thumping rhythmically against the window. She looks up as he says- “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Liz. I- I should have been. Should have saved you from- “

“To be fair, one of us in a comma is far better than two.” she cracks, and what do you know, she still has a sense of humor buried underneath heaps of self-loathing after all. The warm laugh that bursts out of his chest is, she decides, far too worth it, and even if he continues to apologize much too often and much too unnecessarily throughout the night, she finds herself comforted by his presence on her couch, hands three inches apart and hearts a few more than they would like.

“I was there every day.” He tells her a few hours later in the middle of a random _Friends_ episode neither of them is paying much attention to. “Either on my way to the Post Office or on my way back. Sometimes on weekends,” he rubs the back of his head, kneads at the tension his own words are causing. “I was scared you would think you were alone. Thought maybe you could, I don’t know. Hear us, maybe.” He grabs a stale popcorn out of the bag she grabbed for them, eyes it suspiciously in an attempt to ignore Liz’s much heavier gaze.

He tries not to startle as she touches his arm, tries to suppress the quiver of his skin as it reacts to her heat – _alive, she’s alive_ – and most definitely cannot contain the tremor that travels through him as she answers, “I know. I know.”

She falls asleep on his shoulder that night, sleep consuming her as the sadness is kept at bay for the first time in months. He strokes her hair until all he can hear is her heavy breathing, wonders how much a single breath can change your entire life, wonders how she survived losing someone she loved whilst he isn’t sure he could survive losing her. He forces himself to remain awake for a few more seconds as her breathing lulls him to sleep and, finally, wraps an arm around her and succumbs to the reality – she is here, she is here, she is here. She is here.

.

The second time he visits her, he brings Chinese. The enticing smell of orange chicken and fried rice fills her apartment for days, and she is reminded that there are good things, still, things to hope for and to heal for. Liz is reminded of this as she falls asleep beside him again during a chilly Winter afternoon, and she tries not to over-analyze how he is the only person she can feel comfortable enough to fall asleep with, is the only person she welcomes into her apartment with little hesitance, is the only person she allows to watch her struggle with taking a few simple steps to fetch the plates to put the chicken in. She hands him chopsticks and grabs a knife and fork for her, knowing he will grab a pair for himself and discard the chopsticks because if she hasn’t gotten the full sensitivity of her fingers back, then he will pretend he hasn’t either. He smiles as he does this, and she both stills to gain the strength to head to the sofa and to observe his lips intently, thinking orange fried chicken and fried rice aren’t the only things to live for.

This is why, the third time he visits her, he finds her apartment door unlocked. The pizza box he is holding falls to the floor with a loud thump and he is opening the door with his gun in hand in under a second. He doesn’t, however, find her bleeding to death in her apartment floor as he has feared for so many months now. He finds a note, folded neatly on top of her kitchen counter, and he knows this is better, knows it’s preferable to finding her within an inch of death but it just doesn’t feel like it’s better. Not now.

 _I’ll be back when I can_ , it reads, and he doesn’t feel like reading further. He takes the note home and for the next few days reads the following words, even though they jumble together in a tortured knot in his mind as he tries to do so, and it takes him a while to finally be able to comprehend the simple sentences she has written out for him.

_I need to heal before I move on with my life. I have things to love, and I want to love them. I will be back, if you wait for me._

Ressler tears the note in hopes he isn’t losing her a third time. He somehow knows he is.


End file.
